On Normalcy

This has been a touchy subject, and so I will try not to make generalizations. Rather, I will give you the specifics (of my view on it) and let you extrapolate from there.

Ah, to be normal...

I'd be lying if I said I want to be normal. No, I want to be different, unique... extraordinary! Of course I want to be special. Perhaps that's just part of the culture I'm immersed in, or perhaps it's a basic human drive or need, or perhaps it just is. I would rather win the Pulitzer prize or be known as the girl who ate the most tomatoes in a day than forever be just 'a girl.' The bottom is line is that I don't want to be average, or mediocre, or... normal.

But being different is not as easy as that, because there's another side to normalcy: acceptance. Society seems to accept the 'norm' much easier than those who are different. I don't know why... Maybe it's easier to be compassionate when you think the same way. Or maybe it's because the person who is most like you is most likely to support the same causes as you. Or maybe people were raised to revere this concept of normalcy and most have never looked beyond the 'do' to the 'why'. Whatever it is, those who color inside the lines are much easier and more generally accepted.

And yes, I want to be accepted, too. To that end, I try to make people feel comfortable with me and to be friendly. And yes, sometimes, that means not stating my opinion on something straight out, or dressing in a way that some people might not like. So, yes, I adapt the personality I project to suit the person with whom I'm interacting. But I don't think that compromises my individuality as long as I'm still myself with my crazy ideas of becoming an editor and learning to skydive and eating tomatoes all day long when I'm in private.

And it certainly doesn't mean that I don't accept those who are different. So while I might be "acting normal" most of the time, it doesn't mean that I am, or that I care if you are. And it certainly doesn't mean I would give up anything that's truly important to me in order to maintain the appearance of normalcy.

Still Life

If I sit
silent
and still
and stare out the window sill
from the dark room
into the darker night,
mayhaps the world--too fast and bright and chaotic--
would simply
pass
me
by.

If I close my eyes
to light,
so that I see
only darkness...
Nothing
can see
in darkness,
so nothing
will see
me.

And time,
slow-
ly
trick-
ling,
tick-tocking
time,
might pass in a gust,
changing my world in a rush,
without changing me.

Write silly poems always makes me feel better.

Enough is Enough

I tried being cheerful, to look at the silver lining, and all that bullshit, but honestly, I'm tired of laughing sardonically and talking wittily. I'm sick of the natural misfortunes of life and the very human apathy I've been shown. I have not asked for pity--and I will not--but I have never thought compassion and understanding to be so small in the face of selfishness and laziness.

On my good days, I can smile and be happy. On those days, I almost believe in fate and destiny and meant-to-be's. I can appreciate that in many ways, I should be happier than most people. I am grateful for what I have in life, rather than the innumerable, unquantifiable things I've lost forever. I can see that when one door closes, another opens.

But today is not a good day. Today, I feel like I'm playing a giant Ponzi game, where everybody ends in bankruptcy by death. Everything I care for and love now will be paid for over and over again in the future. Every joy will be paid back tenfold in misery. Every happy memory overshadowed by endless despair. Until the day I die, probably young and sickly, miserable and alone.

Today, I feel like life is my bookie, with whom I made some gambles. I had thought I knew the price of losing it all, and didn't care, but found that I was wrong. I thought I'd be okay no matter how many times I would have to pick up the broken pieces of my life and rebuild it, but that is wrong, too. At first I had a marble mansion. Then I had a modest, comfortable home. Now I live in a shambling shack. And I've just realized that soon I will have no home at all, and would be small and filthy on the streets.

Life is a game, after all, like Ender's Game. Only I'm not so lucky or brilliant that I would win. The end might not be near yet, but it seems inevitable. Although I went into the game with a devil-may-care attitude, I may be coming out of it losing my planet, my entire world. Why bother, then? Why fight at all?

"The meaning of life..." Why, there is none. Or maybe there are some, but each is so transient, lasting only until the next rainfall or opera or scuba diving trip in Hawaii, as to not matter anyway. We all stumble blindly, unknowing of our handicap because none of us could ever see. Perhaps death is the eye-opener we all need.

If life were fair, I'd ask what promises it would make to me for what I have gone and am going through. If life were just, I'd ask what I have done to deserve this. But life is a just a tumble of chaos and physics.

To the few who genuinely care, I thank you. To the rest, I would not begrudge you of your Schadenfreude.

P.S. If you're the over-sensitive type, let me clarify. I'm not suicidal. I'm just angry right now. And being a drama queen.

Qualified Optimism

I consider myself a fairly optimist person. I believe in the goodness of humanity, and that everybody just wants to be loved (as an inherited social trait evolved out of necessity, if nothing else). The fact that some people are not loved, or do not know that they are loved, and therefore commit heinous acts is due to the unavoidable imperfections of reality. I also believe that if everybody did their best to do little good deeds, the world would be a better place. That should be quite self-evident.

However, I don't believe that the world is a fair place. I don't think that there is anybody who cares that you get what you deserve, in this life or after. So I don't believe in karma. I don't think that you directly benefit yourself by doing something good for the world.

I believe in luck. What kind of a situation were you born into? What kind of opportunities are available to you? That's all luck. But without hard work, you won't get anywhere with just luck. You might not fall very far, if you were given a very lucky position, but you won't get anywhere either. And honestly, is life really worth living if you make no progress?

So where does this leave me? It means I am mistrustful of good fortune thrown my way, because I'm well aware that it can change at any moment. This means that I'm greedy and hold on tight to all the comforts and wonders in my life, lest they disappear. I hope for the best, of course, but I plan for the worst. If I die sad and alone, what is the legacy I would want to have left behind? (Of course this is not what I want or what I plan, but logically, this is a possible conclusion of my life.)

This also means, don't get me involved in pity-parties. I am sympathetic with others' misfortunes, and am willing to help in any reasonable fashion. But if you're going to start talking about how you deserve more because you've gone through this and this and that, then leave me out of it. The world is not fair... and hence you never deserve anything for your previous plights. And anyway, unless you grew up orphaned in a war-torn country without enough medical supplies, I'm pretty sure I can match you tale for tale. But I don't. Because it's not the tragedies in my life that made me who I am, but the fact that I've lived through them.

I don't like drama. Life is what it is. You can either be happy or upset with it. It wouldn't change how the world turns. Learn to appreciate what you have, and you'll be much happier than if you complain endlessly about what "should be."

Shyness and She, a rant of two parts and one more

Let me preface this by saying that I'm not a writer. I don't write with a goal or with some great moral imperative. I write because I'm frustrated, and it makes me feel better to put words to my frustration rather than seethe silently.

First part of the rant... "I'm shy until you get to know me." I was checking around FetLife the other day, following random posters' links to their profiles (because I'm always curious what kind of a person would say what) and so many profiles said something to that effect.

But you know what I really see when I see a profile like that? I read, "I don't think I'm very interesting, but please ask me questions so that I can feel interesting." Why? Because those people who are confident--the "not shy" ones--have stories to tell. They're happy to tell their own stories and ask insightful questions about what you say to them. They know that what they're saying is worthwhile to listen to. So if you're quiet at first, and not just because you think humanity is pointless in general, then it just means you don't have enough confidence in conversing with others.

And yes, conversation, especially with strangers, is a learned skill. However, if you're never willing to take the first step, then you'll never learn it. So don't be shy. Everybody's interesting because everybody has his or her own unique life experience. And if you really are that boring, then the second part of your statement doesn't apply, because I will never "get to know you better."

Part two of today's rant: "She" as the default pronoun.

Now, I'm doing my homework, which refers to a person as an example, and this person is referred to as a she. Or I'm learning algorithms, and the example is explained by two groups of men and women--with a whole string of qualifiers. Seriously, this is not necessary.

I'm all for girl-power and gender-equality and what-not. I believe that women and men are equally smart (though of course there are variations with the individuals). I go to regular meetings about women in computer science and engineering in general. And yes, I've gotten into heated arguments with obstinate, chauvinist men who insist that a woman would be automatically less suited for certain positions.

Still, sometimes, people take it too far. The plentiful "she"s on my homework assignments is one such example. I see a female politician, a female scientist, a female doctor. Where are the men? How can it possibly be sexist to refer to them all as "he," but not as "she"?

The extra: Pity parties. I can't stand them. I'll probably write another post about that.

That I Should Write Poetry

Poetry is the cloudless, azure sky.
It is the lazy, lapping waters on the lake.
Or the perfect, pale peak of Mount Rainier.
The silence of the whirling laptop fan and cars passing on the street.
Poetry is when I take of my contacts and see fuzzy patches of white and coral and cream,

as I lay still and listless under my covers.

Poetry is when I'm with you,

and everything seems right.

Or at least, nothing can go wrong.

It is that sense of endless adventure and impenetrable security.

It is how holding your hand makes me feel loved,

and kissing you makes me feel beautiful.

There is no poetry for now, when you are gone.

There is no stabbing pain in my heart, though the tears continue to fall.

Just a numbness,

and a silence in my mind,

the whole world is quiet, as if waiting for your return to me before resuming its wonders and joys.

Be back soon.

Be back safe.

No Love Letter

I won't write you a love letter because I haven't practiced calligraphy since 5th grade. And I can't say I love you anyway. It's too soon, too sudden, our chemistry too dazzling. Would you trust me even if I did say that? (Not that I am, because I don't. But I might one day.)

And I wouldn't know what to say in a love letter anyway. Would I mention how I long for your gaze, that feeling that you're looking only at me? Would I mention your voice, both smooth and lulling, when you're talking and you're singing? Would I mention your stories and your observations? Or that I love the feeling of your arm around me or when your hand is stroking my hair or when your lips are on mine? And each of those is but a minute part of you, almost insignificant compared to the rest. For me to eulogize a fraction of you would be an insult to the rest of you. So I wouldn't write a love letter.

Then perhaps I would write that I want to be with you, that I miss you and think of you whenever my mind wanders, which is often. But you know that, because I tell you on the phone, and when we chat, and when we text. And anyway, I have no way to describe how much I miss you, because I have never missed anyone like this before. I cannot tell you how much I want to be with you, because I have never wanted to be with anyone like this. To say that 'words cannot describe it' would only be another useless, flat cliché, like Pachelbel's Canon.

So then what is there left to say? Those things have all been said before. And I'm sure you have heard them all before.

Though I might be willing to sit down and hold a fountain pen to pretty paper, there is nothing to write. I just want to be with you, rather than thinking of you. But I'm sure you know that already. So I won't write you a love letter.